


Identity Crisis

by NinjaFairy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Mental Institutions, Neurological Disorders, Obsession, Puzzles, Suspense, Thriller, Tomione Fest 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaFairy/pseuds/NinjaFairy
Summary: They think they know me, but they don't. Not really.





	Identity Crisis

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Tomione_Fest18](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Tomione_Fest18) collection. 



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> AU. Tom has two personalities that fight with each other for complete domination. There is Voldemort and Tom Riddle. When Voldemort kidnapps young Cambridge student Hermione Granger she realizes his psychological problems. Will she run away? Is he going to hurt her?
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> Additional points if Tom/Voldemort has different personality traits compliant to canon verse.

**Identity Crisis**

* * *

**_St. Mungo's Behavioral Hospital. Present day._ **

A black luxury sedan pulls up to St. Mungo's Behavioral Hospital on a rainy Tuesday in May. Inside the vehicle is a young man with dark, messy hair, green eyes, and glasses. Everything about him right now looks absolutely miserable.

As he walks up to the entrance, he can't figure out what to do with his hands, because they are in his hair, in his pockets, wait, no, running through his hair again. He's anxious. He doesn't want to be here. He wants to turn around and never come back. He wants to swallow his guilt and forget all of this ever happened.

He goes inside, just the same, because he has no choice. Call it closure, call it morbid curiosity, but he just  _has_  to look Hermione's killer in the eye at least one more time before all of this is over.

Inside is white and clinical and bare. He swears he hears a distant scream over the ticking of the clock as he signs his name at the reception desk:  _Harry J. Potter_. The receptionist doesn't smile. Neither does he.

Harry sits down in a chair and waits, his leg bouncing the entire time.

"Mr. Potter," calls an older gentleman with a long, white beard. He is dressed in a white lab coat that reaches his ankles and he's got one of those electronic keycards clipped to his chest pocket. His identity badge reads:  _A. Dumbledore, PhD_.

Harry shoots up, his nerves higher than ever. "Yes?"

"We're ready for you now."

* * *

**_Unknown location. Three months ago_ ** **.**

When I wake up, I'm not in my bed, where I should be. 

I'm lying on my side. Drowsy panic sets in when I realize the side of my skinny jeans, the side of my blouse, and most of my hair is drenched in something wet. Something cold. My shoes are gone. My wrists are bound behind my back and the restraints bite my skin whenever I try to move. I take that panic and turn it into something else, something tangible, something I can use.

My wits. I need them. Relax, Hermione. Relax. Breathe. Take in your surroundings. Gather the facts.

The room is dark; it is silent; it is still. I can't see anything. I feel wet, cold cement underneath me. The only thing I hear is the distant and steady echo of a  _drip, drop, drip_.

Somehow, I manage to sit up. My head spins. The thin layer of water on the floor soaks through my jeans and panties. I hiss when the zip tie cuts into my skin again. At least, it  _feels_  like a zip tie.

I still feel the effects of it – gamma-hydroxybutyric acid and alcohol. All the tell-tale signs point to it. Someone gave me a god damned date rape drug at the party last night. But when I rub my legs together, I feel no discomfort. Everything feels normal, as normal as it can be in the state I'm in. I'm thankful for that, to take one good thing out of this shitty situation.

Still – whoever it was, I will find them and kill them, I think. Never again will I go to a Cambridge house party. How stupid of me. How  _very_  stupid.

I finish gathering my wits and attempt to stand, but I'm shaking. I'm cold and wet and scared. I wish I could stop myself from being frightened, but, yet again, I tug on a positive and I am thankful my ankles aren't tied together. Carefully and quietly, I shuffle sideways through the water until my shoulder bumps against a wall. I turn, so my back and arms are flush against the wall and I move along it, using my bound hands to feel for something – anything.

For what feels like forever, I do this. I do this until I find four corners and nothing else.

I do it again, because maybe I missed something.

I do it a third time, before I finally accept that there  _is_  no door, and I drop to the floor in one of the corners and weep.

* * *

**_Marcus Flint's flat. Three months and seven hours ago._ **

"Oi, Hermione!" Harry calls over the deafening music. I look at him and he's grinning. We've been here for grand total of fifteen minutes and he's already drunk. Lovely. "Grab some more ice from the freezer, would you?"

"I don't even live here, Harry. And neither do you," I say, noticing how comfortable he's getting, sitting in a stained armchair. I add, under my breath with an eye roll, "in case you've forgotten."

Harry whines, "But I need ice for my drink, 'Mione, and I'm too drunk to get it myself. What if I fall and get a concussion?"

"If anything, it might smarten you up, Potter," calls a deep voice from behind me.

I whirl around and I am practically toe-to-toe with Tom f _ucking_  Riddle, the bane of – oh, I don't know – my entire god damned existence?

We've been going to Cambridge together for three years now, the both of us in the Computer Science program. It's been hard, proving myself to a bunch of men that a woman can do what they can do, only better. Anytime I cracked a line of code, anytime I built a program from scratch, anytime I solved a problem, our professors weren't too impressed. I'd only get a pat on the back and a 'job well done, Ms. Granger'. But, oh my  _God_ , whenever  _Tom_  did any of those exact things, you'd think he discovered the fucking cure to cancer or AIDs or something. He'd accept their praise, all in modesty, but I swear, one time he glanced at me and the look on his face was anything but. His features were twisted – a greedy, red gleam in his eye. He'd been egging me on, I know it.

God, do I fucking hate him.

Since then, I've been borderline obsessed with beating him at his own game. Maybe I think too much about it, but I can't help it. I'm the only one who can see through his disguise, but I'm starting to think that, maybe, he  _let_  me see it on purpose.

But, sometimes, I'm not so sure. He ignores me, mostly. In class, he is only ever polite, with undertones of arrogance. He is only acting – I  _know_  he is. I just can't wait to prove to everyone else that Tom Kiss-The-Hem-of-My-Robes Riddle isn't who he really says he is. The wool he has pulled over everyone's eyes is so damn thick, it's no wonder they can't see through it.

And, now, he is simply looking down at me and smiling haughtily, the chauvinistic arsehole.

"What are you looking at, Granger? You heard the man. Go and get his ice, like a good little girl," Tom says sweetly, if that is at all possible.

Before I realize what I am doing, I throw my drink in his face. I'm shocked by my own actions, and so is everyone else. I don't know why I did that. I hadn't even  _thought_  about doing that.

I watch in horrified fascination as Tom sways his jaw side to side and he slowly wipes the alcohol from his eyes. When he opens them, he looks murderous – the calm kind. The terrifying kind.

He laughs, but no one said anything even remotely hilarious.

"Oh, you are  _so_  going to regret doing that," he promises me.

"Am I? That's so strange. I must not be feeling the full effects of it yet.  _No_. I think  _you_  are going to regret it, Tom Marvolo Riddle," I say maliciously, a grin twisting my features that I cannot seem to control. He brings out the worst in me.

I swear, I see his eyes darken with something that makes me nervous, something that makes my belly flop. I blink, feeling like I just woke up from a nap, and pull back, not realizing how close he's gotten.

"Be patient, Granger. You'll feel the effects of it, soon enough," he whispers threateningly, then leaves the room. It's the first time I realize Tom's little girlfriend or  _whoever_  the fuck she is, Bellatrix Black, is standing there, twirling her hair around her finger in a borderline salacious manner. She smiles, snaps her gum, winks at me, then follows after him.

"What the fuck was that about, 'Mione?" Harry asks.

"Nothing, nothing. Hey, Harry? I think I'm gonna go home. I'm not feeling too hot," I say.

He smiles and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Such a lightweight, you are. Come on, I'll walk you home."

I smile at him, but it's fake. "No, you stay here. My flat's only two minutes away. Just enjoy yourself."

Harry frowns in concern, but he lets me go. I can't get out of here fast enough.

Riddle is right. I start feeling regret shortly after I leave. I am dizzy with it. Or maybe it's just the alcohol.

God, fucking damn it. What have I done now?

* * *

**_Unknown location. Three months ago._ **

A loud bang wakes me up.

I freeze when I hear it again. I want to yell out for help, but what if whoever is making this noise is my kidnapper? I'm not much one for taking chances, no matter how desperate I am. I want to survive. I want to live.

The bang happens again and something splashes to the floor. A man screams in frustration. "If you don't let me the  _fuck_  out of here, I  _swear_ to God, I'm going to –"

I recognize the voice in the dark room with me immediately. " _Tom_? Tom Riddle?"

Silence. Then an uncertain, " _Granger_? Granger, is that you?"

I want to know what I did in my past life that was so horrible. I want to know what I did to deserve this. Even so, I am happy to have someone familiar here with me.

"Yes! How did you get in here?" I ask hurriedly, because maybe he knows the way out. Has he found the door? Was that what that noise was? Was he trying to break it down?

"How did I get –" he starts in disbelief, then snaps at me, "What the  _fuck_  is going on here? Did Potter put you up to this? Is this your sick idea of revenge for what I said at the party?"

I frown at his tone. I  _really_  don't like him. He's much too pretty and far too smart for his own good. He knows it, too. And always uses it to his advantage. My hate for him feels alive. "My  _best friend_  wouldn't drug me, tie me up, and lock me in a dark room with  _you_. I have no idea how I got here,  _or_  who put me here."

I hear him hum in consideration, and water splashes around us when he gets back up. "Yes, I suppose you're right – Potter is  _far_  too stupid to come up with something like this on his own."

"Hey!" I snap.

"And you're too… _good_ to go along with it," he says in almost disgust.

"We need to find a way out of here," I tell him, ignoring his comment.

"No, really? I thought about staying for a while. It's so nice and cozy," he replies sarcastically.

I wish I can see him  _just_  so I can hit him. "Are you quite finished?"

"I suppose," he replies coldly, and I can hear him splashing through the water again. "This part of the wall feels different. It gives a little, but it won't budge."

"I've searched for an exit, too. But I couldn't find one," I say, shaking my head.

"You've been here this entire time? I didn't hear you at all. How long have you been here for?" he asks suspiciously.

"Probably hours, but it's hard to say. I fell back asleep, and it's not like I have a watch handy."

"Do you have your cell?" he asks.

"No, it was in my purse. God knows where that is now."

"Perfect," he complains impatiently, "Just bloody well perfect."

"Hey! It's not  _my_  fault. Where is  _your_  cell phone?" I accuse.

Tom is silent for a moment. "It got wet and now it won't turn on."

I sigh. "Okay, we're obviously stuck in here together. Someone has put us in here, for God knows why, and we need to work together to find a way out."

He doesn't say anything, at first. I imagine his eyes are narrowed, like when he is focusing on a lecture in class. But then he begrudgingly agrees, "Fine. Come here. Tell me if this section of wall feels differently to you, or if I'm just going mad."

I walk toward his voice, then awkwardly shift so that I may feel the wall with my bound hands. I can't feel any damn difference, because I can hardly move. I try to joke, but it just comes out sad. "This would be a lot easier if my hands weren't tied together."

"What?" he asks, surprised.

Cold, wet hands easily find my forearms and they tenderly travel down to the zip tie binding my wrists together. Gooseflesh lingers and I swallow anxiously. I remind myself that I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

"They didn't bind you?" I ask.

"No," he breathes against my temple, then one of his hands leaves me and I think he crouches. It's still too dark to tell. He moves again, and I feel him wrap something around the zip tie. "This might burn a bit, but stay still. I'm going to break them with my shoelaces."

"O-okay," I stutter stupidly, wondering why in the Hell our kidnapper took  _my_  shoes, but left his. My feet feel waterlogged and disgusting and cold. Totally unfair.

Tom starts moving the shoelaces quickly against the restraints, back and forth, back and forth, until I feel heat and it satisfyingly snaps.

I cry out, shocked at how good it feels to be free again. My wrists hurt, and there are cuts in my skin, but at least I can move them now. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he says from down low, and I am assuming he is lacing his shoes again. "Let's just find a way out of here. The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Right," I reply, and reach forward to touch the wall. I don't know why I hadn't noticed it before, but it  _does_  feel different from the rest of the room. Smoother. I hear something – whirring – and squat down low to press my ear against it and listen.

Lights flash on overhead and a sudden, high-pitched squeal of microphone feedback rings in my ears, followed by the deafening  _tap, tap, tap_ of someone hitting the microphone. Tom and I cover our ears and cringe.

" _Good evening,"_ a deep, distorted voice crackles loudly over speakers throughout the room. _"Or is it morning now? Oh, my, my, my. It's_ so _hard to tell when you're stuck in a room with no windows, isn't it?"_

Tom and I release our ears and glance at each other. He looks like shit and I imagine I'm not looking too hot, either.

The voice continues, " _You're both so obsessed with winning, so let's play a little game, shall we? Somewhere, in this room, there is an exit. You must find this exit before your time is up. Or…well – hah – drown, I suppose."_

The feed to the speakers cuts off and I hear gurgling getting closer and louder, until –

" _Shit!_ " Tom yells when one of the lids to the pipes across from us flies off and crashes against the wall between us, water shooting out at a tremendous force.

My eyes fly around the room, looking for an exit, but all the walls are the same.

"I don't get it!" I yell to him over the sound of rushing water. "We had to get in here somehow!"

Tom points where the lid smashed against the wall. It left a huge dent. "Here! Do you see these seams? There's most definitely a door here, we just have to –" he pries the dented door open, pushing it against the water that is quickly filling the small room. There is an elevator grate and he slides it open, then he turns around and motions to me. "Come on!"

I stand there, the water is up to my knees now, but I can't help but feel suspicious of him. That was far too easy. "How did you know the exit was there?"

"Why does it matter, Granger? Jesus fucking Christ, just get in here before you drown!"

I hate to admit it, but he's right. I don't feel like drowning today, so I get into the elevator with him. It's filling up with water quickly. Tom presses a switch and we lurch and begin to move up. I glance at him, and the light shining through the grates pass over his face as we ascend. He looks at me and shadows fall over him. When the light hits him again, his face shifts and turns into something from a horror movie. His skin is grey, his hair is gone, his eyes are blood-red, he has two slits were his nose should be, and his teeth are pointed and yellow.

I scream and fall away from him in shock, my ass hitting the floor of the elevator hard. I kick my feet out and scream, "Get away from me!"

The elevator dings and the doors open. Light shines in through the door and Tom looks more like Tom, and less like a monster from my nightmares. He looks down at me like I'm insane. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I…I thought I saw something. It's nothing. Never mind," I answer and pull myself up, following him out of the elevator.

I don't take my eyes off him. Something is wrong with him. It's like he's the devil or something. A monster.

I don't trust him. At all.

* * *

**_St. Mungo's Behavioral Hospital. Present day._ **

Harry nods in reply and follows the older man through a series of hallways with flickering lights and locked doors.

"I must warn you, Mr. Potter, that I have never seen a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder like this before. People with a condition this extreme have no idea who they are, when they are, or what they are. When they are in a certain identity, they truly believe that they are just  _that_  person and  _no one_  else. There appear to be two identities, but we still have them under observation. One is just a typical Cambridge student: friendly, brilliant, charming, perfectly normal. I haven't seen that personality in weeks. The dominant one, though…" the older man shudders, stopping in his tracks. He puts on a false smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Let's just say they were negatively influencing the other patients and had to be put in solitary confinement."

Harry frowns, not knowing what to say, but he tries. "Negatively influencing?"

They begin walking again, turning another corner. "Yes. This one goes by the name of 'Lord Voldemort'. Lord Voldemort is… _very_  persuasive, which is not a good quality to have in a building filled with mentally unwell people."

"Yes, of course," Harry agrees numbly, staring at the floor.

"And there have been… _incidents_."

* * *

**_Unknown location. Three months ago._ **

We're on a platform above the room we were just in, and the water looks to be well over my head now.

"This way," Tom says, so I follow him.

I don't like how familiar he seems with this place. Maybe I'm over-analyzing things, but something's off.

He leads me into a room with two computers attached to two enormous monitors on the wall. Nothing else is in the room.

Microphone feedback assaults my ears again.

" _I must congratulate you on making it this far, Ms. Granger and Mr. Riddle, because you weren't supposed to. I hadn't considered the trajectory that the pipe's cover might've taken and that's the currency that bought you extra time. I made a mistake. Kudos to you for taking advantage of it._

_It's beneficial to me that I got bored one day and decided to create another challenge, but it's not so beneficial to you; I must apologize for this._

_There are two computers in front of you. They are exactly the same in every way, installed with the same hardware and software. But…they also have the same problem: there is an error in the code. You must find it and fix it. If you don't, then you'll die._

_This shouldn't be a problem for the two top students in the Computer Science program at Cambridge, should it? If it is a problem, I would seriously reconsider how valuable your education really is._

_When you fix the error, the picture of the person who is going to kill you will appear on your screen. Oh, how delightful!_

_Good luck!"_

The static to the speakers dies out. Tom and I stare at each other for what feels like minutes, then he lunges toward a computer. I suck in a sharp breath and run to the other.

My eyes scan the lines of code on the screen. All I see is black and green and semicolons. I hear Tom's fingers typing furiously away at his keyboard, but maybe it's me doing the typing. I don't know.

But then I find it. The error.

I correct it and hit enter. Tom hits enter at the same time. We step back and wait for the pictures to load.

"That's impossible," I whisper in horror when they are done.

On both of our screens, in black and white, is a picture of me I have never seen before, smiling happily.

* * *

**_St. Mungo's Behavioral Hospital. Present day._ **

"Incidents?" Harry echoes in alarm. It feels like there are little spiders crawling on the back of his neck.

They stop at a set of double doors at the end of a hallway. Dr. A. Dumbledore swipes his card and they go in. It's a medium-sized room with three beige filing cabinets and a large, two-way mirror that is not on.

"Nasty ones, unfortunately," the older man says, closing the door behind them. "They were labeled suicides or accidents, due to lack of evidence, but all fingers pointed to –"

"Lord Voldemort," Harry finishes for him, his eyes more determined than before.

Dr. Dumbledore swallows audibly. "Are you sure you're ready for this? I can't imagine how hard this must be for you, to see your –"

"I'm ready," he interrupts.

The doctor's mouth goes into a straight line and his fingers hover by a light switch. "Just remember this, Mr. Potter: whoever you knew before is  _not_  that person now. Don't trust a single word that comes out of their mouth, because it is a well-crafted lie. Lord Voldemort only tells you what you want to hear and is nothing but a manipulator."

Harry grinds his teeth together. "Just flip the bloody switch already."

Dumbledore does.

Bright, fluorescent lights glare down on a petite woman wearing a straightjacket, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She has long, wild brown curls, a pretty, heart-shaped face, and amber eyes, which are staring straight ahead at them.

Harry sucks in a shaky breath and whispers, "Hermione."

"We can see and hear her, but she can't see and hear us yet," Dumbledore mentions as he stands next to Harry at the mirror, observing the woman staring at them unnervingly.

"When was the last time –" Harry chokes on his own words. "When was the last time she was her true self?"

"The last documentation of her being Hermione Jean Granger was exactly seven weeks ago. There have been a handful of times where we thought it might be her, but it was really Lord Voldemort having fun with us. She's cunning and manipulative and – and  _evil_. I've never seen anything like it. I've gone through five assistants since she arrived, because she's gotten to every…single…one of them."

This gives Harry chills, and seeing her sitting on the floor like this... How is he supposed to do this? How is he going to be strong enough?

"I just don't understand it.  _How_  did this happen? I've known Hermione my entire life and she's always been…well,  _normal_. There was only ever  _one_  of her," Harry states hopelessly.

"We have a theory that she developed the other personality only recently to help cope with some sort of traumatic incident, but that she was already predisposed to the disorder. While she was Hermione Granger, she would tell us about her life at school the most. And there was  _one_  person, in particular, who she talked about often," the doctor states matter-of-factly.

"Who?" Harry asks.

Dr. Dumbledore side-glances him and asks, "Do you know Tom Marvolo Riddle, Mr. Potter?"

Harry's eyes go wide.

"Yes. Hermione was a bit obsessed with him. Er, not like  _that_ , but they were both in the same program at Cambridge together. They were always competing for top marks and she complained about him all the time. Working into the early morning hours so she could 'beat him at his own game', she said. He…" his eyes lock with Hermione's, even though she can't see him. They are the same color, the same shape, but they look nothing like his best friend's eyes. "…went missing three months ago."

The doctor hums. "Fascinating, how the human mind works, when you want to forget something. Wouldn't you say, Mr. Potter?"

"Incredibly," he clips. Something about this man rubs him the wrong way, but maybe it's just the setting. Maybe it's because he's the one delivering the bad news.

"Her obsession with Mr. Riddle – 'beating him at his own game' – as she has said before, took over her life. We found out that she believed he was evil, the devil in disguise, a monster. When she was admitted, she kept chanting, 'I am Lord Voldemort'. Over and over and over again. My last assistant discovered something of interest with her new name before he couldn't take it anymore…" Dr. Dumbledore trails off, and Harry finds that he is growing impatient with his dramatic pauses for effect. "He found out that 'I am Lord Voldemort' is an anagram for 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'. She fashioned for herself, as far as we are concerned, a persona manifestation of who she believed Tom Riddle to actually be."

"No," Harry breathes, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I have no proof, but didn't her problems start right around the time Mr. Riddle disappeared?" the man asked.

"I need to speak with her. Now," Harry commands.

"That's fine, but just remember what I told you. She is not your friend anymore. She is a danger to herself and to others," he warns, then flips another switch and presses a button. Static crackles.

"Hello, Hermione," Harry manages to speak without breaking his voice.

Hermione blinks lazily at the sound of his voice. Her eyes suddenly widen, then she rushes to the glass as quickly as she can without the use of her arms.

"Harry! Oh, my God!  _Harry_!" she half-sobs against the glass, her voice somewhat distorted through the speakers.

Harry almost stumbles back; it is a blow seeing her like this, not knowing who she might be at any given moment. He examines her now that she is closer. She has scratches down her face, bruises on her mouth, bags under her eyes. Harry slams the speaker button so she can't hear him and asks the doctor, "Why does she look like this? What in the  _Hell_  have you done to her?"

"We've done nothing to her, Mr. Potter. That's why she's wearing a straitjacket. She did that to herself," he answers sullenly.

Harry hates the answer, but he accepts it. He presses the button again. "How are you doing, Hermione?"

Her brows pinch together, confusion on her face. "How am I…?" she trails off and swallows as she shakes her head in disbelief. "You're not here to take me home, are you?"

"I –" Harry starts, but she interrupts.

"You've let  _him_  –" she juts her chin in Dumbledore's direction, her face full of contempt, "brainwash you, haven't you, Harry!? Don't believe a  _word_  he says! I'm not mad! I didn't kill anyone! I don't have another identity or whatever other bullshit he's fed you!"

Harry backs away from the glass in shock, his heart racing, pure doubt rocking his entire world. She certainly  _sounds_  like the Hermione Granger he knows and loves.

"Let me in there," he says to the older man.

Dumbledore's head snaps. "That's just what she wants, Harry. I cannot allow it. I'm sorry."

"You don't understand. If I could just be in the same room with her, I might be able to –" he starts, but Dumbledore interrupts him.

"You might be able to what? Talk some sense into her? Save her? Hermione Granger is  _gone_ , Mr. Potter.  _Your love for her will not bring her back_."

* * *

**_Hermione Granger's flat. Three months and six hours ago._ **

I'm scared of myself.

I got back home from the party and found these letters and sketches in my class notes that are in my handwriting, but I…I don't remember  _writing_  them. And the things they say and the drawings make me sick to my stomach.

Something is wrong with me. I think something is happening, and I don't know if I can stop it. I don't know who to go to for help.

God, they'll lock me up. I know they will. Lock me up and throw away the key. I've worked so hard for this. I can't let them take this away from me. I'm so close to graduating.

I…I know what I'll do, I think as I grab a box of zip ties from the junk drawer. Yes. I know what I have to do now.

I can't write these things if my hands are tied behind my back.

This is all  _his_  fault. He's done this to me. I just know it.

* * *

**_Unknown location. Three months ago._ **

It's adorable that she thinks she can lock me away like this, I think as I pull my wrists against the zip ties and let it cut into her skin. I hope it hurts her later. Bitch.

"My Lord," a devoted voice calls from above. Dim lights turn on and I squint. Bellatrix Black is standing above me, on the other side of a brassy elevator grate.

I smile and call up to her, "What have you brought for me, Bella?"

Bellatrix grins mischievously and twirls one of her curls around her finger, then presses a button. Gears grind loudly as the elevator lowers itself down to me. The anticipation makes me feel drunk.

A part of the wall lifts open like a garage door and the elevator grate shifts to the side. Out walks Bella, splashing through the ankle-deep water straight to me, and her mouth is on mine and her selfish palms are on my breasts.

My servant is hungry, so I feed her.

I pull at her bottom lip with my teeth, and in my bound state, she turns aggressively dominant. We collide against a wall and her hand reaches down the front of my jeans, two slender fingers sliding into me, then I push myself against her palm and moan into her mouth. I break my lips free of hers and she whimpers.

"That's enough, Bella. We've work to do," I say, completely unaffected by her disappointed expression.

I walk toward the elevator and my greedy eyes take in the sight before me. I crouch down, tilt my head, and whisper, "Tom Marvolo Riddle. What a pleasant surprise. Bella?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"How long before he wakes?" I ask without looking at her. I'm too busy studying Tom. He's beautiful. And now he's all mine.

"Two hours. Three, tops," she answers.

"Excellent," I reply, standing. "Bring him to the center of the room. Turn the lights off when you leave."

"Whatever you wish, my Lord. Would you like me to stay close by?" Bella asks longingly. She disgusts me, but she's useful. That's the only reason why I keep her around.

"I don't require your presence in this matter, Bellatrix. Just play the recordings when the timing is right. And make sure the pipe is set up how I specified," I reply authoritatively and she flinches.

I look back at Tom with an adoring smile, and move his face to the side tenderly with my bare foot. "I like to be by myself when I play with my toys, Bella. You know I'm no good at sharing."

* * *

**_St. Mungo's Behavioral Hospital. Present day._ **

It's silent after that, but Harry swears he can hear his heart shatter to pieces. "I'd hoped…"

"Aw, you heard the poor boy. Let him come in,  _Albus_ ," she practically hisses. When they look back at her, her demeanor has changed. She looks maniacal – vicious. Ready to chew hearts out with her teeth just to watch them bleed.

Harry stares at her in shock.

"You're not getting me out of here, are you, Harry Potter? Oh, I'm  _very_  cross with you right now. Very,  _very_  cross." She talks like she is berating a young child.

"Where's Tom Riddle? What have you done with him?" Harry asks impatiently, ignoring her lecture.

She pauses. Her smile is slow and stretches wide, a dark chasm filled with white teeth, and she begins to laugh. Just like her smile, her laugh is slow – a chuckle, at first, but then it grows louder and louder and  _louder_  and then it –

And then it abruptly stops, her smile falling with it in the blink of an eye. She shoots forward and presses her forehead to the glass in mock intimacy, looking up at Harry through her long lashes and whispers, "I  _told_  him I'd make him regret  _everything_  he'd ever done to me."

Harry looks at the person who has the face of his best friend, and is horrified. His best friend, Hermione Granger, is gone. She is dead. Hermione has been killed by this…by this  _Lord Voldemort_.

Her hot breath fogs up the glass when she exhales, then she presses an innocent kiss against the condensation.

Lord Voldemort licks her lips and smiles. "You're next, Harry James Potter."


End file.
